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Writers warmed up to disorientation like spring calves to their mamas. Expressing the ways in which a story, character or scene can be lost and confused led to a variety of situations familiar and strange. Disorientation can be evocative and it can build great tension.

The writers turned up in full force this week. The following stories are based on the January 28, 2015 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about disorientation.

The Beast by Phil Guida

Heading north on Hwy 99 just south of the grapevine, I was swallowed by the Beast. A tightly woven envelop of Tule Fog that snaked its body throughout the San Joaquin Valley. No sites, no smells, just a cold cloud that blinds you to everything near. Somewhere between Bakersfield and Fresno, “where the hell I’m I”? Fear filled my cabin, heart pounding, hands sweating profusely, nothing but miles of thick whiteness ahead of me. No escape route to choose, I crept along until a semi’s tail lights flashed before me, releasing me from the mighty grip of the beast.

Stagnant cologne emanated from her clothes, suffocating her in the tiny kitchen. Remnants of a late-night burger were piled on the unfamiliar Formica counter. Her stomach lurched, belching up bubbles laced with last night’s Stolichnaya, and she wiped crusty mascara from her eyes. Her head pulsated in a dull thud while flashing visions of popcorn ceilings and her red lace bra and her keys clanging against cold bathroom tile. She shuffled from the kitchen just as she heard a door handle click open. She froze, pleading with her synapses to connect the dots. Just whose apartment was she in?

###

Up is Down by Jeanne Lombardo

He’d caught a good one, slipped into the swell right before it crested, paddled hard to keep with it, raced the vanguard foam, till he felt it lift him, carry him on enormous blue shoulders, powerful, the sun blazing, the gulls screaming, the distant shouts spangling the air, the majestic length of the wave tunneling its way to the shore. Riding it! Flying the board of his body through it! Then a flinch. A tumble. A battering of bubbles. Tossed like flotsam. Limbs akimbo. Eyes stinging. Lungs exploding. Salt. Compression. Pumping to the surface. Hitting the sandy sea floor.

Some put their faith in gold, God and governments; I thanked gravity for my anchor in this turbulent world. Friends and lovers might desert me, but Mother Earth was always there. April to October I went barefoot: pounding on asphalt, shuffling through sand or squelching mud between my toes, corporeally connected to solid ground.

I thought I’d gone mad when I heard the rumbling in her bowels. I never imagined the earth would betray me, let her surface crack like an egg. Soil in my mouth, grass in my hair, feet touching only air, I never dreamt I’d survive.

###

Ramona Makes a Deposit by Charli Mills

Morning light pressed through cracks in the old hay barn. Ramona stood on the front bumper of the stored 1967 Chevy truck to attach battery cables the way Vic used to. She could hear him muttering instructions to her although he’d been dead six months. The VA released widow’s benefits that she needed to deposit in Spokane. His muttering didn’t help her 78 miles away when she couldn’t decide if the circled arrow signed right or left. She turned the wrong way up a one-way and had to explain why she drove through the front lobby of the bank.

It always feels weird! But I’ve never been further than fifty years before, and never with a very large wolfhound in tow – his name is Friend, and I have the feeling he will be accompanying me for a while to come from now on. This being his first time travel experience he’ll have nothing to measure it against. As for me? Well, read on …

When I open my eyes everything’s dancing. I’d say I am disorientated, only I’ve never been to 1st century Roman Judaea before, so what–.

“You must be Merlin! I’m Anna, and we’ve been expecting you!”

###

Excluded by Delirium by Paula Moyer

Why would Jean’s son Martin have a party right across from her hospital room and not invite her? She thrashed around, but the IVs, oxygen tube, postoperative pain were limiting.

Just across the curtain, she knew, was a party room. She could hear the clink of ice in glasses, gentle chuckles, fireplace crackles. It was sad, being so close and yet not allowed to participate.

Something happened, a light switch, coughing. Jean woke up.

No party. No party room.

Ouch. The cough of aspiration pneumonia – her own.

She drifted asleep again. The party rewound and repeated. All night long.

###

The Number 59 by Nicky Torode

Half listening to the fading tones from the radio, she drifted into sleep. Woken by the seven o’clock pips, she opened her burning eyes. Stuffing her notes into her rucksack, she headed for the door, missing her step. Double shot today she thought. A hammering in her ears and threads swimming before her eyes unsettled her. She got on the 59, the bus in the news story. Urgent screams in a foreign language followed by ratatat of gun fire. Her body tensed, she dropped to the floor. Student, 30, alive after bus killing spree, the newsreader had announced.

The air is dark, the music salty. Shoelaces glow; neon lights shine, but do not illuminate.

People huddle, but do not invite. People swarm everywhere, numerous as the chairs on wheels. The chairs are predictable. When moved, they slide. When spun, they turn. Spinning them with eyes closed blocks out the confusion of the bowling alley.

You carry an unwieldy sphere to the line, hold it between your spindly legs, and push it forward. Your muscles strain with the effort of coordination. Pins drop all around as your ball rolls to a stop in the middle of the lane.

Mary looked graceful in the water—like a mermaid. The girls on the dock squinted their eyes in envy.

“Show off.”

“Bitch.”

“I totally hate her.”

“Good thing she can’t hear you. You’d be eating lunch at the loser table on Monday.”

“Whatever.”

Mary looked up toward her friends but found sand and seaweed. The sunlight seemed to be on every side of her. Twisting, flailing, searching for the surface, she screamed for help, taking lake water into her lungs.

Mary nodded slowly. She felt herself float, watching the scene from above. The doctor’s eyebrow rose, testing the news to see if it was good or bad. The sweat on her neck, chilling in a light breeze. A voice filled her head, a comforting voice. Mary replied. ‘Shh Sharon.’ Her twin, her dead twin breathed again and Mary shivered.

###

Restroom Signage by Larry LaForge

He’d never had a jello shot before. Now he’s had at least one too many.

He heads down the narrow hallway toward the restrooms at The Chic Bar, keeping one arm on the wall for balance. At the end of the hall there are two metal doors, both labeled only with a fancy stick figure. He scratches his head. The figures look nearly identical, especially with his fuzzy vision. He turns his head sideways, but it doesn’t help.

Decisions. Decisions.

With no time to waste, he shrugs his shoulders and proceeds.

Sudden, loud screams don’t help his throbbing head.

*****
The 100-word version of this story is posted at larrylaforge100words on Flash Fiction Magazine.

The conversation floated around Horry like swirls of mist. Some came at him thick and fast. Too fast for him to make sense of. Others came slower allowing time to respond. Slowly, deliberately he managed a few words before the fog rolled in again. Mute, head hurting, he saw them stare, willing him to make another sound. Increasingly less time passed before they started chatting to each other. If only this cloud fogging his head would go. If only they would go.

My book bag –Old Navy, camouflage – was in the back: four sets of clothes, sneakers, and a set of tightly, rubber-band bound envelopes. My life: assorted letters, and two photographs, from the last three years. That was everything, except for my Riptunes MP3. I was listening to Bastille: Things We Lost for the umpteenth time.

We were watching for a large white SUV driven by a balding, older man and his grey-haired wife.

My ninth home: a new family- this one much older. I was ready: eyes- dry, dulled, unexpressive. New starts aren’t what they’re cracked-up to be.

Between one step and the next, disaster. I reach for the map clipped to my pack, and — nothing! Was it an hour since last I checked? Along the open corridor between the trees, no map lay behind me.

Was I still going north-west? My compass needle swings wildly, doesn’t settle. Circuiting tree-trunks is another chance to loose my way. In the damp, moss marks tree-trunks all the way around, rain clouds obscure the sun’s direction. And I’ve seen that Amanita muscaria, bright against the duff, before!

Desperate, I tramp on. I must find the marked trail before dark.

###

Bed Springs by Pete Fanning

I wake before dawn and see myself. Part of the pack, going along with the commercials, chewing the gum and smiling. How did I get here? In this house and in this bed with this woman who thinks I’m this….guy.

Over on my side I draw a breath, my lungs expand. The ceiling looms. It needs paint. I’m a painter—a gum-chewing painter. Each breath brings it closer. The trap has sprung, the bed springs are uncoiling…slowly.

The morning sun is vibrant. The ceiling has retreated. We make coffee and kiss, plan our weekend.